


And I am a Professional Russian

by coricomile



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Guns, Huddling For Warmth, Hypothermia, M/M, Trope Bingo Round 6, YouTube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:58:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6347236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years ago, Geno had put up a Craigslist ad looking for someone to help him take footage for his brand new YouTube channel. It had been full of strangely worded descriptions- which Sid found out later was because Geno had originally written it in Russian and run it through Google Translate- but it paid a decent amount of cash and Sid needed something to turn in for his videography class. Sid's been out of college for a year now, a useless history degree hanging on his wall at home, but Geno still pays well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I am a Professional Russian

**Author's Note:**

> For the huddle for warmth square on my trope bingo card. My little brother was excitedly talking at me about guns and showed me [fpsrussia](https://www.youtube.com/user/FPSRussia). It's nothing more than a hot Russian dude playing with guns and _driving tanks through drive-thrus_ , because why not? One day I'll actually write about them being hockey players, I swear.

Sid's dragging. He yawns into his coffee, staring out at the long drop of the cliff to his right. When they'd first started, he'd been terrified of the heights. Geno's driving is scary enough on the relatively flat Pittsburgh streets, but up in the mountains it's downright terrifying. He takes the curves too quickly, rides a little too close to the guardrails for comfort, and doesn't slow down nearly enough when there's snow. But they've been doing this for two years now and Geno hasn't killed him yet. 

Beside him, Geno's vibrating with excitement, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Up this high, there's no radio signal so he's hooked his iPod up to the ancient sound system. It's mostly club music, loud and pounding and so full of bass that it rattles the truck. There's a M/2 grenade launcher in the bed. Sid doesn't know what channels he goes through to get the weapons and he doesn't want to know. He's just the cameraman. 

Two years ago, Geno had put up a Craigslist ad looking for someone to help him take footage for his brand new YouTube channel. It had been full of strangely worded descriptions- which Sid found out later was because Geno had originally written it in Russian and run it through Google Translate- but it paid a decent amount of cash and Sid needed something to turn in for his videography class. Sid's been out of college for a year now, a useless history degree hanging on his wall at home, but Geno still pays well.

Sid also has a really, really good insurance policy. It's not that he doesn't trust Geno- he does, more than he probably should- but Geno almost took a piece of shrapnel to the face a while ago and Sid's always been a believer of being prepared over being sorry. 

The higher they climb, the harder the snow falls. Sid watches it come down, covering the ground with a thin layer of white. There are a few small towns here and there that they've discovered when the need for food had been too much to handle, but most of the range is free and devoid of people. It's why they make the three-hour drive for every shoot. The only people in any danger are them, and that's one of Geno's top concerns.

"Bear," Geno says, taking one hand off the wheel to point towards the rise of the mountain side. Sid leans forward to look across him. It's a black bear, fat and starkly visible in the snow, ambling around a thin strip of land. "Should be sleeping already. Is almost December."

"You'd know," Sid says, slumping back into his seat. They're almost at the punchbowl clearing they use for explosions. He needs the sharp sound of a gun going off to wake him up properly. Being in a car always makes him tired, no matter how loud Geno plays the music. Geno grins and takes a sharp turn around a bend. Sid braces himself against the glovebox and steadies his coffee. 

They park on the side of the road when they reach the punchbowl. Sid locks the truck up, ignoring Geno's affectionate eye roll. He knows that the likelihood of someone coming by and stealing the truck are slim to none, but he doesn't want to be stranded on the off chance it happens. Cell reception up here is worse than radio reception. 

Geno shoulders the gun case and Sid gathers his filming equipment. They have to hike a bit to get down to the level where a stray explosion will hit rock instead of flying off into the unknown. Sid could probably get there with his eyes closed. 

They're quiet on the walk down. Geno likes to go over his speeches in his head while they walk, practicing his phrasing and remembering all of his points. He's gotten a lot better with English, but he still stumbles sometimes when they're talking. Sid doesn't quite cringe when he watches some of the earlier videos, but he can admit they've both come a long way. 

Dana, their props manager, had delivered the dummy car earlier in the week. It's parked a few feet away from the rock face of the bowl, tires already blocked and windows up for maximum effect. Sid's never seen him deliver any of the endless strings of junker cars to the filming location. He doesn't know how Dana gets them through the rocky, uneven terrain without crashing. 

Sid sets up the main camera on a flat patch of ground. He has to clear snow away for the feet of the tripod. He can already tell he's going to have to do a lot of post work to make the video clear. For the moment, he just wraps the camera in a plastic bag and leaves the lens on while he sets up the close range camera near the car. 

"Away more," Geno says. He's wiping down the scarred wooden table they dragged up last year, gun case resting against his leg. Sid clears another patch of ground, kicking at the slowly rising snow with the heel of his boot. He looks back over his shoulder and Geno gives him a nod. 

Sid leans on the edge of the table, watching Geno set the grenades up in neat lines. Geno's humming, happily shuffling as he begins to put the launcher together. It's drab army green, easily half the length of Geno's chest. The scope on top and both the handle and barrel are black. Sid's learned about more guns than he can count, all from Geno's careful research, but he still doesn't remember most of it. 

Except the war stuff. When Geno had learned about Sid's love of history, he'd instated a bimonthly war weapons video. The absolute highlight of Sid's life was the moment he'd met Geno at the edge of the city and been presented with a Grizzly I cruiser. Geno had popped out of the hatch, his eyes bright and his smile stretching so wide it looked painful. If asked, Sid thinks that's the moment he went from crushing on his weird Russian boss to being in love with his weird Russian boss. 

Geno had found and got a Canadian made and used _tank_. It might not have been for him, not really, but Geno had put in the effort. Sid's dismayed at how easy he apparently is.

One of Geno's giant hands run lovingly over the barrel of the launcher. He lifts it to his shoulder, still unloaded, and checks the sights. Sid should be used to the way Geno looks with a gun in his hands, but it still gets him hot under the collar. Maybe he's been in America for too long. 

"Ready?" Geno asks. He sets the launcher back on the table, fussing until it's lined up the way he wants it. Sid pulls the handheld camera from his pocket, pulls the cap, and nods. Geno grins. 

Sid lines up the shot, counts down, and hits record. Geno goes into his opening spiel, the words coming easy and fast. For the first month, Sid had made him repeat it over and over again until the channel's name had stopped getting lost inside the thickness of his accent. They'd argued a lot in the early days, both of them too stubborn to give in. Sid thinks it's worked out pretty well, all things considering. 

"This is M/2 Grenade Launcher," Geno says. He's cradling it in his hands, long finger on the outside of the trigger. He gives the weapons specs, turning the launcher and holding each part to the camera. He loads the first round of grenades, the ones with the blue caps that mark them as paint blanks. "Can fire six rounds in three seconds. Watch."

He turns away and waits for Sid to step to his side. It gives him a three-quarter shot, Geno's shoulder in the forefront, his face carefully neutral. Somewhere along the line, they'd figured out that they got more views if he played into the ridiculous Russian stereotypes. Sid prefers watching Geno go giddy and excited, face bright with something new, but the views pay his rent. 

Geno fires off all six shots into the side of the car. The launcher recoils hard into his shoulder after each one, pushing it back without leaving. Geno doesn't flinch, doesn't falter. Even from the relatively safe distance away, Sid can see the six perfectly round holes in the doors of the car, each one of them surrounded with hunter orange paint. They're almost in a completely straight line.

Sid waits while Geno goes over to the other car, pausing the handheld camera. He shuffles from foot to foot and blows into his gloved hands. The wind's picking up a little, whipping the snow into drifts. If it gets any worse, they'll have to cut the shoot short. The ammo's heavy, but there's going to be fire and Sid won't be responsible for burning a forest down. Geno crouches next to the car, pointing to the holes and talking into the close-up camera. 

Geno resets with the live ammo, cradling the grenades gently as he loads them into the magazine. He spins the revolver style barrel, flashes Sid another one of those goofy grins, and gives him a thumbs up. Sid pulls the handheld from under his jacket and begins filming again. 

"Now let's see what it can really do," Geno says. He turns, Sid tracking the shot, and aims at the car again. 

A burst of fire catches as soon as the grenade hits the car, the front window shattering prettily. The boom is deafening, echoing off the rockfaces. Geno shoots off the live ammo slower than he had the blanks, letting the damage speak for itself. The fire grows up instead of out, Geno's aim steady through the kick back. When all six rounds have been fired, he turns back to the table and picks up another round. 

"This is Hellhound," Geno says, holding the grenade to the camera. Even in his hands it's massive, thin and narrow and impossibly deadly. "High Order Unbelievable Nasty Destructive grenade." Geno had practiced that in the truck on the way over, his voice a low, familiar murmur as he repeated the words over and over. He doesn't let Sid do retakes, which had been another argument. It annoys Sid as much as it endears him. 

Geno pops the mag back in, aims, and fires. The car explodes. Sharp chunks of metal go flying, made all the more visible by the still falling snow, embedding themselves into the mountainside. Sid's heart pounds against his chest as the massive boom begins to fade away. He looks at the decimated stand of the closeup camera and sighs. He'd felt the shockwave from four hundred feet away. 

"And as always, have nice day," Geno says into the handheld, holding that stupid unimpressed face until Sid stops recording. 

As soon as Sid's tucked the camera away, Geno pulls him into a bone crushing hug, the launcher smacking against Sid's back. He smells like explosives and snow and aftershave, all of it as heady as watching the car go up had been. Sid hugs him back and laughs. It really doesn't ever get old.

"You want to shoot?" Geno asks when he pulls away, holding the launcher up. Sid looks at the fat barrel and nearly reaches out. It had made a pretty explosion for sure, and while he doesn't get as giddy as Geno about the guns, he's still a red-blooded guy. He pushes down the urge and shakes his head. 

"I'd blow us both up," he says. Geno shrugs and begins disassembling it. Sid picks up one of the grenades, turning it over in his hand. It's heavy, the cartridge as big as his palm. Someone figured out just the right combination of explosives and air and velocity to make it work just right, and Sid's never going to get over the genius of it. 

By time they've packed all of the equipment away, the snow has climbed up to Sid's shins. It creeps into his boots and squishes uncomfortably into the thick wool of his socks. Come hell or high water, he's not letting Geno drive back. 

They trudge back to the truck, hunched against the wind. A tree branch snaps next to Sid's cheek and he stumbles ass over head into a drift. He manages to twist just enough to keep his cameras safe, but snow soaks through his jeans immediately. The ride back is going to be hell. He flips Geno the finger when he notices Geno quietly laughing at him. 

"Yeah, and fuck you, too," he mutters. 

It takes a longer than Sid would like to unstick the doors of the truck. He waits until they've stashed their things in the tiny back storage of the cab before holding his hand out for the keys. Geno frowns at him. He looks like a puppy, all drooping eyes and dramatic mouth, and Sid considers giving in. Another gust of wind hits him square in the back, pushing him towards the truck, and he shakes his head. 

"Give them over," he says. Geno sighs but does as he's told. 

The roads are almost invisible. Sid plows slowly through the snow, hands firmly on the wheel. Geno left the music off and the howling of the wind is loud even through the rolled up windows. The only weight in the bed is snow. They should have bought sandbags. It's something to remember for next winter. 

The storm gets worse. Sid can barely see through the whiteout in front of him. He's driving too closely to the rock face, but he'd rather hit that than go over the cliff. Every gust of wind pushes the bed of the truck into a swerve. They haven't hit any ice yet, but Sid's not optimistic that their luck will hold until they get home. 

"Need to stop," Geno says when Sid edges the truck around a sharp bend. He's holding his phone up towards the roof like it'll catch any signal out here even without the storm, jaw clenched. 

"Where exactly do you suggest I stop?" Sid asks. It's snappier than he'd intended, but the truck just fishtailed and his heart's jammed somewhere in his throat. 

"Just get to flat road," Geno says. "Old rest stop nearby. No one work there, but we get out of storm for a bit."

Sid knows the place he's talking about. Calling it a rest stop is generous. Still, he carefully navigates down the mountainside until they get to the first stretch of flat terrain. They're still halfway up, still out of range of phone signal, but there's no way in hell they're getting the rest of the way down. Not tonight. 

The rest stop is just as shitty as Sid remembers. It's been abandoned since before he and Geno had started using this location. He can see a hole in the roof and one of the windows is boarded up half-heartedly. The vending machine beside the main door is broken, the front panel hanging off its hinges. It's awful, but it's better than nothing. 

The snow is up to Sid's knees. It sinks into his jeans as soon as he steps out of the truck, soaking straight through to his skin. His ass is still wet, even the hour's drive not enough to dry the denim out, and he shivers when the wind hits him. He locks up the truck as Geno carries in his sad little bag of water bottles and the snacks he always keeps stashed in the glovebox. Sid's stomach gives a pathetic gurgle. He'd been planning on stopping at the diner at the base of the mountain for lunch, but that's clearly no longer an option. 

Inside the rest stop is barely warmer than outside, but without the wind pushing at them Sid can almost believe they'll be able to warm up. They could have stayed in the truck, maybe run the heater on and off every once in awhile to make things less miserable, but Sid doesn't know how long the storm is going to last. They're chasing a quarter tank of gas, just enough to get them down to the base of the mountain. He'd planned on filling up there, too. 

The lobby of the rest stop is covered in dust, cobwebs hanging from the low ceiling in sticky clumps. The women's bathroom door lays propped up against the wall. Sid grabs it and puts it in front of the boarded up window. It cuts out more of the wind, but it also blocks out what little sunlight had been coming through.

"Take pants off," Geno says. Sid's head jerks up, trying to find the dark shadow of Geno's body. 

"What?" 

"Take pants off," Geno repeats. He's in the corner farthest from the window, huddled in against the walls and digging through the snack bag. "You stay wet, catch death. I'm have to eat you to get through storm." 

Sid resolutely does not think about Geno eating any part of him while he fumbles at his belt with frozen fingers. It wasn't supposed to be a sexy thing. It was supposed to be the _least_ sexy thing ever, but Sid's neck is still hot when he toes off his boots. He peels his socks off too, grimacing when his bare feet touch the dirty floor. 

He lays his wet clothes out flat on the floor. He's hoping they do dry, but it's just as likely they'll freeze. His boxers are a little damp, sticking uncomfortably to his ass and the backs of his thighs, but there's no way in absolute hell that he's taking them off. He already feels awkward and ungainly. 

"Come here," Geno says. He doesn't give Sid a choice, grabbing him by the back of the jacket and yanking him in. 

He fusses until Sid's sat between his legs, his bulky coat covering Sid's lap. Their legs stick out under it, Sid's shins gone a shade of blue that he's not comfortable with. Geno wraps his arms around Sid's waist and goes back to rifling through the snacks. They won't starve, but Sid's arteries already hurt. He doesn't know how Geno eats the way he does and still looks so good. 

"Stop." Sid slaps at his arms, but Geno just tightens them until Sid stops fighting. He makes a noise of triumph when he finds whatever he was looking for. 

"Fruit snack," Geno says. His voice, more familiar than almost anything else, is right in Sid's ear, warm and pleased. Sid shifts, the hard floor already uncomfortable. "Eat. Keep strength for drive home." Geno waves the little packet in front of Sid's face. 

"Gross," Sid says. Geno laughs. Sid can feel it vibrate through his own chest, a strange echo like when one of the guns go off. 

"Not so bad," Geno says. He rips the top off the packet, his elbows bumping into Sid's sides, and pops one into his own mouth. It brings his arm up across Sid's chest, holding him for a moment. "You always eat after shoot. Know you never eat breakfast."

Sid doesn't like breakfast. He's never liked breakfast. All the food is too heavy and his brain slows down right after he's eaten. He makes up for it at lunch usually, when the mid-day lull is expected of everyone. He didn't think Geno knew about that. Geno waves the packet again and the sharp, chemical smell of artificial fruit overpowers everything. Sid sighs and takes it from him. They taste as awful as he imagined they would, but his stomach stops grumbling.

They finish off three of the packages together. The inside of Sid's mouth feels plasticky and there's a tiny, gummy piece stuck in one of his back molars that he cannot for the life of him get rid of, but the edge of hunger has disappeared. He's still freezing, shaking a little against Geno's chest, but the shaking is a good sign. He'll be worried when that stops.

He makes plans for the next range of videos, unable to be silent. Being still isn't something he's good at. If he's not working with Geno, he's helping out at the children's center or reading one of the many books his old professor recommended him. He can't be still when he could be doing something. 

Geno nods along, his chin tapping the top of Sid's head, and answers all the questions Sid asks. He doesn't seem to mind Sid's racing thoughts, even if he's admitted before that he doesn't get it. 

"Why are you so into all of... " Sid waves a hand, trying to encompass the mass of artillery that Geno's been piling up in storage. It knocks into Geno's thigh, upsetting the delicate balance of his coat. Sid readjusts it and quickly pulls his hand back "The guns, the tanks, the stuff?" Geno shrugs, a full body movement that Sid can feel against his back. 

"Is fun," Geno says. He's barely whispering, but his voice is loud in the quiet of the room. "Big explosion, lots of power in hands. What not to like?" He pauses, head tilting until his chin is resting on Sid's shoulder. Sid can hear the rough sound of their stubble catching. "When I small, Papa take me out hunting. I maybe four, too small to hold gun on my own. But he teach. First time gun go off, I'm scared. Big noise, big recoil, you know? Old shotgun. Had been in family for years. But next shot, I'm learn not to be scared. Shot after, I'm know that I'm want to keep shooting."

Sid tries to imagine Geno as a child, miniature body bracketed by his father's, his tiny finger pulling the trigger of a shotgun bigger than himself. It's strange to think of him as anything but what he is now, larger than life and endlessly capable. It just doesn't mesh. 

"Your turn," Geno says. "Why you like camera so much?" 

Because I get to spend time with you, Sid thinks. 

"I like the editing," Sid says instead. It's true enough, anyway. There's something calming about the repetitive actions of cutting and splicing. He's been putting back money for a high-speed camera for a few months now. It probably won't do a lot to increase view rate, not at first anyway, but he thinks Geno will love it. "And someone has to make you presentable for the public."

"I always presentable," Geno says, rubbing his palm over Sid's face roughly. Sid elbows him, but it still turns into a wrestling match. The hard ground is freezing against his bare legs, concrete scraping up his knees and thighs, but he's going to pin Geno or die trying. 

Geno's laughter echoes off the walls. He shoves his freezing fingers under Sid's jacket and shirt, taking shameless advantage of Sid's distraction. Sid wheezes out a breath when Geno sits on him. Geno looks skinny, but he's really, really not. 

"Say I'm win," Geno says. His hands are still caught under Sid's shirt, leeching what little warmth Sid's managed to store up. He leans in, tongue pressed between his teeth, and raises his eyebrows. "Say it."

"I win," Sid breathes out. Geno snorts. Sid knees him in the back until he rolls off. Moving felt good, even if the sudden lack of body warmth has left him twice as cold. He looks down at his feet and grimaces. "I can't feel my toes."

The playful grin Geno's been wearing fades immediately. He scoots over and grabs Sid's ankle, yanking until Sid's flat on his back again, his feet in Geno's lap. His toes are definitely turning blue in an alarming way. Geno folds his hands around Sid's left foot, rubbing gently to get the circulation going again. Where they'd been cold against his stomach, they're almost hot against the frozen sole of his foot. 

"I give you boots," Geno says, slowly adding more pressure. It hurts as the blood begins to flow back. "Little damp, but maybe help." He tucks Sid's left foot against his stomach and starts in on the other one. Sid stares up at the ceiling and tries not to think about how weird he should find all of this. 

"Keep them on," he says. "Only one of us needs to lose toes tonight." Geno opens his mouth to say something, but Sid flexes his toes against Geno's palms and he bites whatever it is back. 

When his skin is almost back to healthy pink, Sid wiggles away and checks on his clothes. The legs of his jeans are partially frozen. He shakes them off, but they stay stiff when he lays them back down. He pulls on his mostly dried socks and scrambles back to Geno. 

"Ruin all my hard work," Geno says, scowling down at Sid's feet. Still, he gathers Sid back up into his arms and fusses until his jacket is covering all of Sid's legs. "Tell me history story. Keep brain warm."

Sid rolls his eyes but leans into Geno's warmth and tells him about the Second Boer war. 

The storm goes through the night. Sid can't feel his hands, can't feel his feet. He'd eventually put his jeans and boots back on, unable to feel the chill of them even though there'd still been some frost. Geno keeps him talking, has him tell every war story he knows until his voice is rough. 

Geno's not shivering anymore. Sid had bullied him back into his coat after he'd gotten dressed, but Geno keeps trying to take it off. He mumbles about being hot, which is terrifying. Sid blows into Geno's hands, pressing the frozen palms to his sore lips. Geno's so, so pale. 

"Stay here," Sid says when Geno stops responding to Sid's voice. Leaving him is like wrenching his chest open, but Sid needs to get them outside into the truck. The gas will last for a while. He tries not to think about what they'll do when it runs out. 

He has to shovel out the exhaust pipe. The storm has finally ended, but the snow reaches up to his thighs, soaking him through to the skin again, but he forces himself to focus. When the exhaust pipe is cleared and Sid's convinced the engine to turn over, he turns on the heat to high, wincing at the blast of cold air, and opens the passenger side door. 

Geno's taken his jacket and shirt off. He's moving slowly, hands clumsy as he tries to unclasp his belt buckle. Sid swears and rushes over to him. Geno hits him when Sid shoves his arms back into the sleeves of his shirt, but it's messy and uncoordinated and barely grazes Sid's shoulder. Sid picks up the pace. 

When he's gotten Geno back into his jacket, he hauls him up, arms straining against Geno's weight. Geno leans heavily into him, nearly stumbling with the first step. He's got to get warm again soon.

"One more Hellhound," Geno mumbles as they stumble toward the door. "Shoot, light whole-" He says something else, but it's in Russian. He goes easily when Sid shoves him into the truck, slumping over the seats. Sid tucks his legs in and closes the door.

The heater's still not ramped all the way up, but the air is warm enough. Sid grabs Geno's hands and holds them in front of the vents, turning them carefully. It hurts, but the hurt means it's working. 

"Geno," Sid croaks. He squeezes Geno's hands until Geno's eyes open. They're heavily lidded and a bit fuzzy, but they center on Sid. "Stay with me. Talk to me, come on. Your turn for a story."

It takes a moment, Geno's mouth moving without words, but his voice eventually fills the cab. It's thick, low, and no less comforting even with the unfamiliarity of Russian consonants. Sid keeps their hands in front of the vents, watching the blueness of their fingertips slowly fade away. 

Every so often, he has to nudge Geno to get him talking again, or wrestle his arm back when he tries to take his jacket off again. An hour passes, marked off by the green glow of the clock on the radio. Geno's shivering again, his teeth clacking loudly together, and Sid wants to cry with relief. 

"Sid," Geno says. It's jolting after all the Russian. Sid makes a noise, finally letting Geno's hands go. They're still not warm enough, but the rest will have to come more slowly. "Sid." 

"I'm here, G," Sid says. Geno flails a hand at him, managing to get ahold of Sid's collar. He pulls, still weak, and Sid leans in. 

"Sorry," Geno says. He looks wrecked, like he'd called down the storm himself. The angle is awkward, the gear shift digging into Sid's stomach, but Sid still folds him into a hug, squeezing as best he can. 

"Not your fault," he says into the cool skin of Geno's neck. "We'll be okay." He doesn't know how, but he'll make sure of it. When he pulls back, Geno keeps his hand fisted in Sid's coat. Geno kisses him. It misses the first time, their noses bumping and teeth grazing, but he shifts in his seat and then their mouths are touching and Sid really nearly does sob. 

"Sorry," Geno says again, his lips brushing Sid's chin. He loses English after that, but he keeps murmuring soft words, his free hand coming up to cup Sid's cheek. 

They stay like that until the engine gives out. The truck sputters under them, great heaving shudders, and then there's nothing. Sid closes his eyes and takes deep breaths, trying to will the panic away. 

"Always thought you'd blow yourself up," Sid says. His throat hurts, dry and aching and sore. Geno's bark of laughter sounds more like a cough. "I should have checked the weather. I should have cut the shoot short."

"Quiet," Geno says. He lays a soft kiss on Sid's forehead. "Catch death, I'm eat you to survive." Sid sniffles. God, that hadn't even been twelve hours ago. Geno shifts, reaching into the back of the cab. He's still moving slowly, still fumbles as he drags the gun case onto his lap. 

"Geno-"

"Shoot like shotgun," he says, fumbling with the clasps. It takes him nearly three times as long to assemble the launcher compared to out in the punchbowl, pieces slipping out of his hands and into his lap. "Two finger on trigger. Have to pull hard. Recoil strong. Don't jump. Blow us up if jump."

"Geno…" Sid watches Geno load the grenade into the chamber. His whole body is still shaking. Geno smiles weakly at him and tips his chin toward the rest stop. Sid gets out of the truck and rounds to the passenger side. He has to open the door himself. Geno hands him the launcher and closes his eyes. 

The launcher is so, so heavy. Sid stares down at it in his hands, absolutely terrified. He puts himself away from the truck. If he manages to blow himself up, at least he won't take Geno with him. Carefully, so carefully, he tucks the butt of the launcher against his shoulder like he'd watched Geno do a hundred times. 

The rest stop is distorted in the lens of the scope, expanded and stretched. Sid aims for one of the unboarded windows. One hand is on the forward grip, steadying the gun, the other hovering around the trigger. Geno's shown him how to shoot handguns and shotguns, let him pull the trigger of a semi-automatic, held inside the cradle of Geno's arms while Geno steadied the body of the gun. But this- this is something else. 

Sid takes a slow, deep breath and fits two fingers against the trigger. He does have to pull hard, but then the launcher's jamming back into his shoulder, pain flaring through Sid's chest and up into his jaw. He hears the grenade explode before he sees the first spark of fire, his ears ringing and his body shaking. He drops the launcher and throws his arms over his head.

The fire grows quickly, eating at the old walls and blowing out the remaining windows. Sid lurches to the truck, climbing in on the passenger side. Together they're too big to really fit, but Sid curls up as best he can in Geno's lap and holds him. 

"Fun, yes?" Geno asks. He rests a hand on the back of Sid's neck and rubs the edge of what's going to be a spectacular bruise. Heat radiates from the building, a wave that steals Sid's breath away. He laughs weakly and kisses Geno again, quick and frightened. It's unfair that he gets to have this now, when time might run out. 

Sid passes out soon after, head leaned against Geno's. He hopes that it's enough, that his body will be enough to keep Geno warm until someone comes by. 

He wakes up to a rhythmic tapping. For a moment, he's confused, head fuzzy and eyes refusing to open. Then he feels the slow rise of Geno's chest and his heart seizes. He jerks, banging his head against the roof, and Geno kicks as he's woken abruptly. 

"Sid?" Geno asks, his hands going tight on Sid's hips. He's _warm_ , sweat on his temples and in the dip of his chin. 

"I'm here, G," Sid says. "I'm here." The tap comes again and Sid turns as best he can to look. He hisses as his skin pulls over the giant bruise on his shoulder. There's a woman in a police uniform, looking in on them with a worried frown. Something in her loosens when Sid manages to get the door open. He nearly tumbles out into her, his legs tingling when he tries to move them. 

"We saw the fire," the woman says. "Got up as soon as we could." Sid looks over at the burnt out shell of the rest stop, all the flames gone. He doesn't know how long he slept, but the sky has gone twilight dim. "You okay?"

"Are now," Geno says as he stumbles out. He steadies himself with a hand on Sid's back, his fingers curling into Sid's jacket easily.

The woman leads them to a police SUV with a plow attached to the front, the lights flashing with the siren off. Sid explains, tells her why they were up there and why they'd massacred the building. Geno has to go back to the truck to produce papers for the launcher, which is still buried somewhere in the snow. 

The policewoman gathers up their things and stuffs them into the back of the SUV with them. The gun case rides up front with her. Sid's never been in a police car before and the chained glass makes him nervous, but they're alive and going home. Geno takes his hand as the policewoman starts the SUV down the mountain. She, at least, drives like a rational person. 

"We make it," Geno whispers, leaning in close. Sid grins. 

"We made it," he agrees. Geno's fingers tighten around his. Sid stares at them, at the healthy pink of their skin, Geno's just a touch darker. They made it, they're okay, and Geno's still holding onto him like he's afraid to let go. 

"Next date somewhere warmer," Geno says, eyes bright despite the tiredness that's making his face long. Sid's chest goes tight and _warm_. 

"Yeah, G," he says. He fits himself into Geno's side and watches the cliff to his left as the SUV slowly cuts through the snow.


End file.
